05 February 2008

Seven in the morning on mangalwar [Tuesday] and I'm holding hands andpretending to drink mango – out of season – juice with a bunch ofFrenchmen and natives I've met barely to never and cracking up on intoyogic pieces and of course how do I get here or anywhere.

Apologies for using a product which automatically capitalizes somewords. It's what I'm choosing to let Be for the moment.

The answer of course is a thousand dollars bicycle with 27 gears, abuilt-in dynamo to power lights and charge batteries, seamlessshifters and perfect balance. Alongside, naturally, four Frenchmenfrom France (which country?) a head and shoulder taller than everyIndian except their guide, an overwhelming Parisian GujaratiMountaineer who grew up between the Himalayas and the Alps and is asmountainous a personality as his homes. These four brothers (who aren't, in the western sense) have riddentheir bicycles – and yesterday took turns riding mine for a bit – fromFrance. To here. Ahmedabad. Almost 9000 km. I saw it on their gadgets.Through Europe, Western and Eastern, through the Balkans and theHellenes and Turkey and Iran. They missed a visa for Pakistan and flewfrom Dubai to Bombay, and have continued here, and will go onwards toChina. China. France. China. Somehow they ended up at the Seva Café (the Ahmedabad Bigode, if youremember) while I was there cooking on Sunday, and as such (being theonly Francophile and Francophone I know of here) I became theunofficial Manav Sadhana tour guide. Which is different than spendingall day writing a book I should have finished months ago, but prettydamn cool. They are going to, in China, the world's first sustainable city, orso it claims, Dong Tan, which produces more energy (and carrots?) thanit consumes. And will take either the Trans Europe or Trans SiberianExpress back (mostly) home, I can't be sure.

We met a man Manav [humanity] a few days ago who is lovingkindnessand passiveacceptance incarnate in a rare male form. He is a quiethero, humble in means and attitude, studying yoga, naturopathy, andayurveda for the last eight years. Yesterday we spent the evening, with Manav and Jayeshbhai in thelead, giving intense full body massages to these French cyclicsts intheir culottes as – of course, it's India – a room full of Indian menlooked on with idle chit-chat in the background. This guy Manav wouldleap onto the bed, straddling a Frenchman, to use all of his weight inmassaging the brother's back. It was an awesome and comic sight. So I don't know, this is what I'm doing. It's like this, different every day. This morning for the third time in my short but eventful life we hada laughing circle, mouth-closed post-yoga hand-holding circle of fiveserious skinny bigode-d Indian men, three goofy French cyclicsts, andmyself, some lost cocktail of language and culture and totally atpeace. A around of mirthful laughing as meditation, another, and thenManav stops everything to ask the Frenchmen

"Do you like Juice"baahh, oui."Mango?"je suppose

Nodding, Manav holds out a fist as a cup and holds another handhigher, a big thumbs down as a pitcher, pours twice into the cup – weall follow along – and vigorously slams the cup back to his tiltedhead and breaks into deep belly meditation, er, laughter.

"Okay! Okay! Again!"And this time with gusto…

So that's the morning in Ahmedabad. Talking about partnership and therace card, can you image what it must be like to be Four French Guysriding through Asia? I got a bit of a glimpse yesterday during the 10km from Ahmedabad to this retreat center at Sughad… they are morepopular than cigarettes, surrounded by a hanging smoke of smiles andquestions, motorcycles slowing on the road to chat and ask YOURCOUNTRY everyone smiling and waving likes it's the NY marathon or theend of the war.

The 30 minutes we road together was like a 22 km / hour parade (I hada gadget! I could tell) and I felt, truly felt, how wonderful, howtruly wonderful, it would be not to be alone.

They ride together, go through traffic together, change tirestogether, play chess while riding, hang on the trucks long Turkishuphills.

There is a chance a Gujarati poetess and Slovakian pesant mayaccompany me on the next journey – planting seeds and songs from oneof Gandhi's Ashrams to another – Sabarmati to Sevagram, 800 km. Thepesant has a large flute and we're going to a Mango farm which meanseverything could work out in the end.

There are many ways to meet men in India if you're a man. And one ofthem is playing the (bamboo) flute. I met a whole cast(e) of humancharacters playing at the ashram Saturday morning, tucked away in aquite corner between the parrots and river, at the border of the Neemtree's shade. Waiting fruitful hours for a friend.

If people were on time I might never have time to practice.

But I'd like to write a little bit about Azad. Azad is older than youraverage FYBcom ("first year business commerce") degree student,because he's from a family where he had to work. He lives in a jointfamily with three bothers (one of them married) and his parents, in asmall house with three stories and a lot of love. His two brothershave rickshaws and won't let him because he's the youngest and there'sa lot of affection there.

So he's worked retail in various fabric showrooms I guess and at somepoint got sent to Kerala to the main branch of some sari (Indianwomens' traditional dress, all the wedding pictures, you know…)showroom. Ernakulum, Kerala for one month.

And the first day after work the Kerala people take the six newGujarati workers out to the bar. Now in Gujarat we have prohibition –it's the only Gandhian thing they've kept around except the money,perhaps – and Azad's family doesn't have the kind of money to go tobars or hotels [Indian English = restaurant] anyhow. So it's his firsttime and they ask what does he want:

Whiskey, Rum, Vodka etc.

That all falls under daru here and its strictly prohibited youunderstand, both legally and morally. A convergence for once. So Azad[freedom] says no and they say, well, will you have some "juvvarpani"? It's good for your health, natural, and does no damage.

Of course.

The literal translation of "juvvar pani", naturally, is barley water,and away they go, six Gujaratis and 25 healthy bottles of barleywater, and I think the phrase most appropriate, roughly translated is,"much merriment was had by all".

From the bar they go to the hotel [restaurant] and have the typicalkerala rice meal some of you must know and love so well – a bananaleaf with a huge pile of rice, surrounded with different curries andpickles and dark hands wet with coconut making big balls of rice andcurry with much tossing or shoving (depending on elegance andbackground) towards the mouth.

The great part was the way Azad described the rice meal, insofar ashis amazement at the exotic foods and strange customs of the Keralans,was exactly as an Amerikan or equally foreign national would havedescribed. Total amazement and pleasure at the use of the banana leaf,incredulity at the quantities of rice, and positive disgust/glee atthe unprecedented (for North Indians even…) use of the right hand, howthe curries are dripping all the way down to the elbow!

This Azad would interrupt his studies to tell me that the very treeswere dancing from my flute playing, and that his boss would play Tablaand note the flowers would freshen and crispen from the music. Welcometo the poetry of freedom.

His family is Brahmin and he knows all the necessary rituals to make alittle side business during wedding season. Apparently the time beforeUttrayan (when the winds come, 15 Jan) is verboten for weddings,because the air is stale. But some NRIs [non-resident Indians] do itanyways.

Azad says that NRIs may eat, drink, and live in a foreign country, butthey always come back to Gujarat to get married to a Gujarati girl.Frequently they're in a hurry so their weddings are first, closer tothe forbidden time, and then the real Gujarati wedding season is on,and ever goes crazy will silk and sarees and hopefully nice tips forthe priests.

If it's anything like the Mexican wedding and the waiters, he's gotnothing to worry about…